


When the Wolf Howls

by artellip



Category: Kung Fu Panda (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Bodyguard, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drama & Romance, First Meetings, Heavy Angst, Human AU, Humanized, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Pre-Canon, Romance, Spoilers - Kung Fu Panda 2, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artellip/pseuds/artellip
Summary: The tragedies that befell a prince, and the wolf that kept him safe, even when he didn't.
Relationships: Boss Wolf/Lord Shen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 81
Collections: Reading





	1. Before Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> I could not help but explore the complex natures of one of the villains of a kid's movie, to my surprise. It opened up opportunities, and as a writer, it was something I wanted to delve into. Warning, this is a mature read. So if you still desire to push through, then by means, do so. 
> 
> This work was intended to be a one-shot, but it grew and I followed it. It is a two-shot, separated by two moments of Prince Shen and Boss Wolf's life, before and after the prophecy.

Shen was seven years old when he learned what the word _lost_ truly meant.

Sitting on the forest floor with nothing but the roots and the cries of the crickets to keep him company, Shen dawdled onto the harsh night. Even the moon was floating away, disappearing amongst the clouds when he needed it the most despite the stories his mother used to fable him, about the companionship it offered to the weary and the lost. He called it out. The moon did not speak back.

His ankles hurt, the tightness of the ropes that used to bound him was an echo of the tribulations he had to undergo as a prince of Gongmen City. His wrists were ugly with scars, an impurity amongst the paleness of his flesh, the softness of his skin. But nothing compared to the ache that smothered his chest. He did not understand it. The hurt, he meant. There were no wounds peppering his unscathed chest. No crimson, no royal velvet. Yet, it hurt here, above his heart, a shackle of some sort that seemed to cling onto his ribs, when he wanted to breathe and he couldn't. There was no explanation. It only hurt.

Shen looked upon the cacophonies of twisting wood and saw the bleakness of the dark night sky. He had yet to make haste once more before the rebels who had taken him for ransom could find him. But his eyes have trailed far away, and he could not take his eyes off them -- the darkness that littered every core of the earth. He felt strange, listening to the void as if he waited for it to speak.

There was a hush sound, from the wind, from the trees. A ruffle of leaves, and Shen, exhausted from the running, could only blink at the starless sky that seemed to etch onto his mind, forever lost without a flame of hope, of light. He embraced his knees, breathing in the scent of the woods he had loved before it became an echo of the darkest night of his young life, and looked at the figure approaching him, a light upon his sleeve. Twigs crunching with delight.

Shen was never afraid. It was the first lesson, to never be afraid, and he was still not so, not even when he knew by then he could have been breathing his last. He looked upon the glowing eyes and stared at him with an intense coldness a prince should wear when confronted with death itself.

Him. With a lantern on his grip. Hair as gray as raven birds. Skin tan with the illumination of flickering light.

It was a boy. Like him, older, perhaps, but still young.

A boy, with such very, kind eyes. The kindest he had ever seen. He knew wondered by then, if this was death, staring at him with…

"Are you lost?" The boy asked, voice graveled like rocks on a stream. He had come nearer, bringing the source of light down to the damp ground next to his scarred feet. He knelt, worry lacing his soft features and Shen could only look, completely bewildered. How can this boy be so gentle when everything else around him seemed so...harsh? Jarring. Cruel.

“I am not lost.” Shen coldly stated, bearing in his mind the lessons the palace adviser had given for him to devour like the rice cakes he would ask his nanny after dinner when his mother did not want to. He had to be poised, and respectable, even in the face of lingering death.

"I just don’t want to be found". The boy merely observed him, eyes blinking with neither one moving, neither one speaking, before the boy reached carefully like the prince was a fragile thing he dared not break, and ghosted his fingertips over the sensitive skin of his hands, of his wrists. The boy took them, held it in his own hands, and warmed them up with his own heat. His skin was different, Shen had noticed, it was calloused and rough, and not suitable for touching a prince, but he had held him, held the brokenness in his skin peppered with velvet bruises and yellow marks with such open gentleness that he felt safe, even among the lost trees and under the blind moon.

Shen looked at his eyes, maroon, and traced the silhouette of his face, touched by light, blackened by the night. The boy perhaps felt his own and beheld his gaze, suddenly drawn together like stitches on an embroidered soft cloth.

“Well, I found you.”

The boy cradled him into his arms, his white royal robes of silken thread and red tousled garments that etched the symbol of the royal family though now painted brown and black with the grease, the dirt and the blood adorning him, swaying with every step towards the light. Shen wrapped his arms around his neck, breathing in the musk of earth and coal, burying his nose further into the depths of his black undergarment.

When he was brought to at the front of the castle, the royal guards had pointed their swords at the boy with imminent doom lacing the very silver of its sharp iron. His mother came running, worry, and dread visible on the lines of her face. And so they were ripped apart from each other. The boy made no sound, no explanation. He would have been blamed even, for the wounds, his abduction, if Shen did not stand, his legs shaking beneath his silken, bloody robes. Despite the show of weakness, he stood tall.

"He found me.”

* * *

Lang was 14 years old when he learned what the word beautiful truly meant.

He was a general in the making, despite his age. His master, the High General of the Royal family, had seen his growing potential marked with brutal, steady hands that could swing an ax with mighty intent, and shoot an arrow at the heart from the growing walls of the palace with steadfast accuracy. He could stay beneath the harsh rays of the sun in hours’ worth of burning flesh, and could strangle a man with his bare, callous hands. He had the eye of an eagle and a mind of a military strategist. He was but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

If only he could become a wolf even in the night.

His brothers and sisters depended on his strength. But strength could not feed hungry stomachs at night. So in the mornings, he was a soldier bred to fight, and in cruel nights, he was a bellboy raised to serve.

His training had not gone so well than he thought he would, out of all the mornings in his life. The High General had yelled colorful words, one that could breed dragons in his wake, and belittled the very core that made his life worthwhile in this cold and harsh reality that is the world: his family. Good for nothing souls succumbing to scraps of the rich. Kicked by feet drenched in gold. The stench of death in their breaths. It wounded him when his general had talked little about his background as if he had forgotten Lang was one of them.

But it seemed that his anger had shown, dancing away on the features of his face. It was not a fair fight, but the High General did not care. He urged him to not feel. _A kick in the face_. To serve the highness bestowed upon the heavens to Gongmen City. _A fist to his torso_. To let go of his inhibitions. A _punch in the gut_. And to be the big, bad wolf the soothsayer had proclaimed him to be. _A blow to his head._

He stood up, after all those beatings, and the High General seemed to be proud of him for it. A soldier must not kneel in the face of an adversary. He must be willing to sacrifice his life for the good of the royal family, for Gongmen City. Lang nodded, despite the blood trickling down the side of his face and nose, the taste of copper filling the spaces of his mouth and the flowering blossoms of bruises over the olden scars of past trials. The pain did not matter, for he can choose not to feel them.

Laughter littered the air, and Lang’s heart would have burst right there and then, bearing in his mind the consequences of striving too far for a better life. His brothers’ and sisters’ laughter echoed even louder, and the High General was so keen to make an example that Lang’s heart could only beat against his chest. He followed the High General, curses floating, eyes cold. He feared for his brothers and sisters for Lang was a coward dressed in glinting bravery. He wondered by then, if the High General would hurt them, would he still obey? Choices were only for the blessed, after all.

They followed the sounds to the royal garden where he could hear his sister’s mock laughter and his brother’s faint huffs when he was getting too tired of the little games. He saw the High General’s grin, the tightness of the grip on his sword. A bloodlust that sent shivers down his spine. Lang wondered, if today was the day he would die.

Yet, the white, royal robes had danced with the winds, giving him a sense of security over the harshness of his beating heart.

He had never laid his eyes on this graceful feather for more than a second ever since he was adopted into the royal family as a palace guard. He had never dared to comprehend the white, silken, straight hair that flowed whenever he pleased; never dared to touch even a single strand of his garments; never dared to remember his eyes, the way it twinkled under the beaming light of his lamp, red and sad and searching. He had never dared to come closer and smell the fragrance of his skin, flowery and coppery with a touch of vanilla and chamomile, a scent so rare and bizarre, but intoxicating enough to make him feel things he know he should not. He did not even dare to listen to the lulls of his voice whenever he was in a fight with the king or the queen, even when he sang lullabies to himself in his sleep when Lang made rounds around the castle, his voice so soft and gentle it could rival the sirens of the seas.

The prince was the sun, and he was only a lonely moon.

Yet, he had never seen such laughter gracing the features of the young prince, not until now, when two of his sisters were embracing his frame, and two of his brothers were circling around him, trying to catch the other two peasant children clinging onto his grasp. He was astounded that his heart gave way.

“Your majesty.” The High General gulped in tenses. He tightened his grip on his sword, and Lang could not make up the expression gracing both of their faces, the Prince and the High General. Lang’s brothers and sisters stopped, forming a line behind the prince, the way he had taught them when someone of authority was near so they could not get in trouble, so they could not be harmed, so they could not be thrown like insects without purpose. A disposable entity.

The Prince looked at the High General, cold and menacing and eyes turning to slits, that Lang forgot how troubled the prince truly was. How the rumors were half true, half baked. How it begged the townsfolk to look away when his head was full of ideas, even when he was very, very

_Beautiful._

“You’re a disgrace, High General, for thinking that you can harm such little children. Do they do not teach you compassion in soldier school?”

“Apologies, my Prince.” The High General did not dare to speak further, his tongue bitten with force, even when Lang knew the man hated the young prince. He walked away instead, head down with fear, but never of guilt.

And left Lang alone with him. 

“Do you have something to say to me?” Lang looked down. He would not dare to catch his eyes. He was not worthy.

“My name is Lang.” The prince only chuckled behind his hand.

“I know.” His tone had a sudden rush of undesired sorrow, visible at the edges and Lang…Lang did not know why a royal soul would want to speak to a bereaved with such…woe. Yet the yellow flowers that sprouted from the tree beside them was a beckoning call as its petals slowly sprinkled the ground, encircling the very path of their feet, of their lingering, young bodies. Lang could only watch the petals dance under his feet and caress the paleness of the other’s limbs. They were free, unlike him. Until the Prince had spoken again. “You’re the one who never looks at me.”

Perhaps, it was the petals and their breezes that beckoned him to surrender, as if they were whispering such a ghastly lie to make him yield, that he was also _free._

But Lang knew that when he yields, he dies.

No second thoughts pondered in his head, however, as Lang, now braver, yielded with his chin up and eyes open, and dared to look at the sun.

The Prince’s eyes were breathing. A cool mix of red wine and the dawning sun of the afternoons. It brought him back to life.

The Prince seemed surprised, despite his attempts to appear callous and unfeeling. Lang never understood why he pretended to be someone he was not. Was that what it entailed for a prince? Was he as lost as the other folks who begged for their lives and fought on the streets?

“You are bleeding.” His voice was a lull and he almost even tripped when the young prince’s hands reached for the ugly scars on his head. He ducked, not wanting to soil the hands of someone so pure and clean in his eyes. The Prince had stopped, his hands on the air, a few inches away from his cheek. Lang did not like the look on his face when he sighed instead and dropped his hand, as if he also realized the weight of his touch was transcendent to someone like him, like Lang. But it didn’t make sense, how sad the Prince was he did so.

The Prince frowned, and Lang decided he did not like them, the way his lips lowered, the way his brows knit, the way it seemed like he was hurt, even when Lang did not even do anything. But the Prince was strong, more so than he expected, and grabbed the loose cloth beneath his dark metal chest plate to pull him away. He followed.

The Prince’s hands were gentle, but he was careful not to touch his skin as if it was taboo. Lang could only look, and stare, and drown on the cool whirlpools of his eyes, and from someone who was deemed cold, he never thought he could make him feel the warmth he always craved for. 

He was dipping a cotton cloth on the bowl, his lashes long and tamed and pretty. “Is there something you want to say to me?” he asked once more. He probably could feel the weight of his gaze from the moment he sat on one of the chairs. It must have been jarring, to be looked at like that by a nasty, unlovely soldier, one where scars littered his tan skin, and rashes adorned his rough hands. Yet, Lang could not look away, not when he was as warm as the sun, as gentle as the doves, as beautiful as the howling moon and the vibrant seas.

His sisters have brought another bowl of warm water, instructions from the Prince himself, and Lang did not listen to the sways of his voice until he heard the bells of laughter coming from his pink lips. He watched the frown turn into something achingly, lovely.

“My name is Lang”. He said, overwhelmingly erroneous. The breath he had been trying to swallow vanished out of his lungs, but even then, he could finally breathe. He took his chance.

“And you are beautiful.”

* * *

Shen was 15 years old when he learned what the word _run_ truly meant.

He once requested to be let out of the palace grounds without the looming guards bequeathed to him by his father. It was disconcerting to be able to leave without a sentry to watch over him. He was no longer a child, he would often say. Even his soothsayer agreed, saying through the metaphorical means of her riddles that his forced captivity would eventually lead to his ultimate doom, much to his chagrin, but his father seemed so keen to oppose. Perhaps, it was after the many attempts of his capture, of the almost deaths and near losses, both of his and his mother, that led him to believe he will lose those which he loved someday.

In whispers his father would respond, so none may be able to hear how he dreaded the day he would no longer see his beloved son and the white and crimson feathers of his hair, his robes, and the red sheen of his eyes, and this bounded the man to the growing casualties of never-ending fear. For times, it ached Shen to know of his father’s tribulations. Most, it only annoyed him.

Security over liberation, and Shen found it repulsive. How could he live his life if he were closed off to the rest of the world? If he were meant to rule someday, he would want to rule with the people in his mind, the kingdom on his fingertips. He must know what it feels like to be part of a crowd, to be an insignificant speck amongst other specks.

But his mother would often scold; he was not merely a part of a spectrum. He was a symbol of power, purity, and hope. He must not desire to be everyone else, for he was not like everyone else.

Yet, the skies were clear and blue and the songbirds were chirping the song of the mountains, the aroma of freshly cooked rice cakes and street spring rolls cascading into the open windows of the palace, and so Shen’s desire to see his kingdom up close and unguarded plagued his mind until he could not do anything but surrender to its temptation during one summer afternoon.

He traded his silken white robes adorned with crimson family symbols with cotton grey undergarments from the guards’ barracks, the disguise of a commoner a seemingly impressive feat even for him. His white hair was tucked under a headband, tied beautifully so not a single strand could get caught by peering eyes. Nobody in this city had pure, white hair, and it would cost him greatly with just one glimpse, one mistake.

Shen was like a ghost, appearing by the shadow, disappearing by the light. He liked to think he was quicker than the rest, more so, smarter even. He slipped through the guards as nimble as he was and joined the crowd in a blink of an eye.

It was an achievement, and the giddiness he felt jumpstarted the wires of his heart. He could smell the energy, a mixture of coal, and baked pastries, and salty sweat, and fresh grass, and pungent fruits, and the damp earth beneath his feet was a blessing as it soiled his toes. He could hear the very cries of babies, of curses, of the clashes of swords and strikes of metal, of the rats that linger and nibble, of greed and hope and wonder, and of life exploding right before his very eyes. A crying child had caught his attention, wandering amongst the crowd, as if lost and waiting for his dear, dire mother. It somehow lingered, the thought of the child, almost as if he were looking right at himself. Approaching the child with easy steps still made her sway in fear, but as he knelt to give her the sweet-smelling dough he bought from the old lady by the gates, she stopped in her cries and held his hand.

Hers was not as soft as he thought it would be, for she was grimy, scars painted across her arms, her skin, mosquito bites that discolored the smoothness of her skin. But despite that, the little girl smiled through her tears. And Shen could not help but do so as well.

He must have been too giddy, too pleased, a bliss of that sent shivers down his spine, that he did not notice a hostile stare nearby. For despite the garments of a commoner, he was no commoner. He moved gracefully, high, like a peacock displaying the lovely colors of its untouched feathers. To the trained eye, he was visible.

There was gruff, and slither of pain catching him off guard as a man forcefully grabbed his scarred wrists, the ones with slashes across his skin from the very ropes he once had them bound. Shen was surprised, and then, he was heated. There was a snarl on his lips, tied with a perilous intent as if he had wanted to hurt him. Shen knew of defenses, but the man was a tower. The man pointed at his ear, and Shen already knew what it meant. The long strand of his hair dangled by the side, clean, white, and full of life in contrast to the gruesome alleyway that the man had taken him to.

Shen could only glare, stance ready to attack, if the man dared to even try to touch him once more, but he did not have the privilege to defend himself, for as sudden as the morning breeze, a hand had grabbed the end sleeves of his shirt and pulled him away in terrifying speed.

He could hear the man’s anger, catching up like bees. Once, a pan came flying towards their direction, but Shen’s newfound companion had quickly blocked it with his arm. and then, they ran. They ran like their life depended on it. They crossed vendors and chickens and children. They pushed barrels and boxes over, creating a mess that could withstand the seas. His new companion blocked him off from the view, even when they were out of sight, even when the rocks of houses shielded them enough from prying eyes. The Prince did not like it when people told him what to do, but his companion’s eyes urged him to follow, and Shen could not help but do so. So they ran, and Shen never felt so alive.

As the commotion died down, his companion, he now deduced to be a boy older than him, heeded him to hide into a secluded alleyway. He was taller than Shen, rugged in his moves, concealed from head to toe, but the eyes were there. Though even the eyes were darker than they were as the glaring afternoon sun cascaded shadows beneath them. When the shouts were getting louder, more so now from the guards, the companion urged him to step back, pushing him lightly, until Shen was completely at the mercy of the wall behind him, and his companion in front of him. He, then, without so much as a warning, placed both of his arms at the side of his head and further leaned down until Shen could feel the heat emanating from his body. There was no work of dark magic, no tainted intents. It was only him and his body shielding him off from the rest of the world. And all the prince could do was put his hands in front his chest for the closeness they brought was traitorous and unbecoming.

Shen braved to look upon his eyes when the sunrays hit, and he saw the glinting kindness of maroon-colored orbs.

He should be angry, at least, for Lang had tried to interfere with his venture yet again, but Shen could feel nothing but the beating of his heart against his chest, rapid and hard and electrifying. He dropped his hands to his side and surrendered. And so they stood there on a ghastly alleyway, chest to chest, an inch apart, so close, yet so far.

Lang seemed to notice his realization, for the creases on his eyes crinkled up as if he had smiled.

“That’s my shirt you stole, by the way.”

There was a slight teasing glint in his voice. Shen had the audacity to look as scandalized as he wanted. “If I didn’t know you were only doing your duty, I would have thought you did this on purpose.” A raised eyebrow was the only response, but Shen laughed.

“I’m keeping this shirt then, since you left it on purpose for me to find. It is mine now.”

There was a hum from the Lang. “Cotton does not suit you.”

And as if the world had gone mad, or perhaps, that was only Shen, he blurted out the words he had mean to say in his head. “But your shirt does.”

There was only silence that came after. Shen was sweating, the summer heat he supposed, and it trickled down the sides of his face. He saw Lang follow its trail. If he was embarrassed, he did not show it. Shen loved playing games on people, but this, guard, soldier, protector, maybe then, even friend, was harder to crack.

Bur if Shen could be honest, the whole tirade was more for him than it was for Lang.

“You’re not a runner, are you?” His voice was deep and graveled. Shen basked in them.

“Of course I am.” He half-whispered the words, breathless. Outside, the guards mistook them for a playing couple and left them be. When it was clear enough that they would not come back, Shen pushed him gently, careful not to touch _skin._

“So catch me if you can.”

* * *

Lang was 16 years old when he learned what the word _lonely_ truly meant.

The youngest sister of his household was on his bed, and there were only shallow breaths, sweating palms, and quiet moans. The stark difference was a loud echo Lang could no longer bear. And all he could do was hold his breath and caress her hand as she breathed the final breaths of her young life.

There was a sickness, a case of a viral infection that plagued children and old people, and she was only unlucky enough to catch the bug and let it burrow into her insides. She had always been frail, the healers had told him, and it was only a matter of time until she succumbed to the void. But Lang held up a hope in him that perhaps, she could be the outlier, that she would survive and he would bring her to the peaceful seas of the north where everything was calmer, after Lang could pay his dues. But as she breathed, a wave of sadness bequeathed the rest of them. The younger ones cried, and the older ones could only hold her. Lang could see the rest of his siblings staring face to face with an unimaginable tragedy, and all he could do yet again, was hold them together.

It was not fair, how life treated them differently. All he asked for was that the heavens kept them safe, safer than they did for him. And if he could beg them for any reprieve, to exchange his soul for their safety, he would do it without any sound hesitation. It was not fair, that all he could do was wait for her to surrender.

And so she did under a crescent moon.

It was after a day or two when Lang came back to the palace to work. Rumors forced him to come back, an impending attack, whispers of raids from mercenary groups, the biggest planned retribution against the royal family yet, they reported, so they needed every extra hand. Especially his, who had shown intensive progress that there were talks of promotion, the rightful owner of the title of the youngest general of the royal palace.

A soldier does not weep; does not grieve. There was no place for tears, a roundabout of weakness that extinguished logic and clogged the mind, or his mentor would have said. But the events that transpired happened so fast that Lang did not even think of the heaviness burrowing inside him, even when they spread her ashes onto the cliffs of the mountains, letting the last of her fly into the open world, as she should have been.

The rumors proved to be merely stories, and Lang found himself exhaustingly aching after a day’s worth of hiking the city, of interrogating and sealing, of espionage and hiding. He reached the Towers of the Sacred Flame in easy steps to make one last round for his royal duties when he caught the glimpse of the pure, white moon seeking him through the gaps of the windows. He stopped in his tracks for he felt hefty, as if the weight of the world had suddenly come unto his shoulders. He looked at it, the way it hallowed into the night and despite the stars shining from where they were, Lang could see the bitter loneliness that was the moon. It struck him odd, how it made sense. The moon was an epitome of the lonely, and he found comfort in it.

He didn’t know what came over, what made him this way. He would blame it on the exhaustion, always did, but as soon as the thought of the moon came morphing into his mind, he felt the intense pain that seemed to shoot him, right here, above his beating chest. Lang saw red.

And when he came to, there was only a thrashed room greeting him like an old friend.

There were no tears. Only the anger and the tiredness disappearing into his bones. He sat on the floor, leaned against the boxes of unused metals and firecracker elements, and let the moon shine down onto his lowly form. He woke up an hour later, his bones cracking in his movements. There was a shift of perspective, a lost thought that made him doubt his surroundings. He forgot he existed for a moment, and then he was here. There was a soft tug around his shoulders, an unexplainable calmness among the wrecked darkness of the room, until he felt the soft silken cloth leave his petrified body as it dropped to the ground. Lang did not remember anything prior to his uncalled outburst, but he was sure he never dared to bring himself the comfort he longed for.

He picked it the soft linen cloth, white and attractive in contrast to his tired body and the horrid colors of his uniform. The silk was soft to touch, a piece of heaven in his grasp, and he wondered, briefly wondered, if he earned this enough. And Lang wished he were awake to witness it.

There was fondness glinting in his eyes. He was alone so he let his heart succumb to its beatings, his desires. There was a small bud of affection somewhere in his chest, and he let it bloom even more.

He tightly gripped the silken cloth in his hand and gazed back at the moon for one more time. There were words in his lips, and if this were another time, another place, he would have let them die on his lips.

“I am not the moon, after all.”

* * *

Shen was 17 years old when he learned what the word _light_ really meant, and that it could be created.

As a Prince of Gongmen City, his best interests would always lie with its people and his subjects. But why is it then that the people’s best interests wanted him to die?

His father ruled with fairness and justice, but fairness and justice were sometimes cruel. And those who had thought so, decided he was the justice they deserved. Gongmen City was a kingdom of grace and triumph, but what lurked beneath the ground and behind the shadows of doubt were nothing more but the pests of greed and animosity. Shen understood his father merely did what he knew was best for the kingdom, even if it meant hurting everyone else in the process. For the greater good, he would always say, even when his wife was stolen, even when his son was taken away.

Shen was not one to sit around and merely be a visual for the city, a symbol of hope and purity, like they wanted him to be. He was not hopeful, not anymore. He knew the palace’s enemies would attack when given the chance, the traitors in their midst would take advantage of it, and they would eventually strike, starting with him.

Greed was a plague. It shattered logic. It devoured the soul.

And Shen wanted no part in that.

His nanny warmed him of the tribulations he would face if he continued onto his path. He loved her. She was there when his parents were not. She was kind when the people were not. She was the first to believe in him, and the last to say goodnight. But she was wrong, even though she was the greatest soothsayer China had ever seen. She was a seer, but she did not see the festering wounds blooming inside his chest like red carnation flowers.

His parents’ greatest creation, the iridescent lights of Gongmen City, needed only tweaking. He let the grease of gunpowder assault his nostrils, his hands, his face, every night when the moon was high and alert, when the shadows were his only companions, and studied the composition it entailed. He began to draft a weapon in its stead.

People believed him to be weak, meek. They did not know he was not, not even nearly.

It was during the 22nd night when he was discovered. Out of all of them, it was by the soldier with the kindest eyes. The one he had longed to look at ever since he found him, especially even, ever since he had finally looked at him.

“My Prince.” The soldier said, not with disgust or misguided pity, never with it. He seemed only surprised, and Shen could not fault him for that. His image had always been pure and clean.

“Leave now, Lang, I do not wish you to be part of this.” The soldier only looked, pondered even, as his eyes went to his, and then to the scribbled gears and paramount calculations written on thin, yellow parchment, and then back to his eyes once more.

“You’re building a weapon.” He whispered. Shen could not hide it, not any longer. And it hurt him that out of all these people, it was him that saw who he truly was underneath. The blossoms of anger nipping the entrails of his insides choked him. He looked away, a dismissive stance that told the other to go away, a beg even. But a prince did not beg. They never begged.

“What do you need?”

Shen only looked at him, eyes wide under the bright light of the moon above them, a solace it gave. Lang could see the bleeding cuts starting to pepper his fingers, Shen knew, and he hid them behind his back, the echoes of his advisers ringing in his head. _A prince must not show their wounds_. Lang came nearer, and Shen allowed him to. He read the parchment of plans, of theoretical compositions. He did not understand them, he was sure, for soldiers never had the proper education rather than the learnings of a true warrior. But he seemed to understand, however, the gist of what he was trying to achieve. Shen could only hold his breath, as poised and quiet as possible.

“You need metal railings, but those are heavy, my prince, you will not get them by yourself. And your hands…” He stopped himself from talking and beheld him. Shen knew what he was asking by then, and he only nodded. The royal guard carried meters upon meters of metal railings, placing them onto the wooden table where it could be disassembled and reassembled into something much more beautiful than what they were created for.

It intrigued him, the idea of being molded by choice and not by destiny.

Even when Shen had started to ghost his own hands onto the railings, pointing out the imperfections of its bronze linings, of its dusty corners, Lang the royal guard, did not leave him be. He observed the patterns of his face as he urged him on in conversations and the guard did not disappoint. It turned out that the guard knew more about metals than he would care to admit, and in exchange, Shen taught him what he knew about the lights amongst the iridescent firecrackers that littered the night sky every once in a while.

Shen could see the young guard’s eyes go back to his hands, every few minutes, as if the scars had offended him. It did not make sense to Shen, how this soldier looked at scars like he had never seen one, which was ridiculous. Lang always had scars, and he never let him touch them. Was his own blood on his own hands too ghastly?

“I know of your midnight exploits, my prince.”

“You did not tell?”

“You seemed…unwell.”

“I…” Shen looked away, astonished, surprised, bewildered. “What did you do, then?”

Lang rubbed the skin at the back of his neck as he looked away. Shen found this endearing.

“I extinguish your bedroom light, for you sometimes forget…”

If Shen could gape, he would. But the practice of it was forbidden, unbecoming, his adviser would say, for a prince did not show emotions, not when it was not required. There was a tear at his insides, the hurt inside his ribs starting to pound against his flesh, and Shen… Shen could not breathe.

Lang bowed his head, his hands coming to the back pockets of his uniform, and on his palm, laid pure, white bandages, one with healing oil, and one as clean as a summer sky. Shen had looked at them, before he had looked at him. He felt like a ghost who came back to life.

He wanted to question each movement, each purpose. He wanted to know what was going on with the boy who saved him, the soldier who never looked at him, and the guard who dared not touch him. It did not make sense, how this young man -- rough, brutal, strong -- could hold such tenderness in the hidden corners of his skin, of his eyes, of his bones. He did not even understand, how one can be both at the same time. Motives were overdue to questioning, and Shen was getting tired of the hide-and-seek they seemed to be playing. Trust was not something he dawdled on, but somehow, he wanted to do it. To trust.

Lang reached for the long sleeves of his night robes, still silken white, and Shen could not do anything but reach out the palm of his hand. The young guard laid the bandages on them, never once touching his skin.

“…And I make sure the candles inside this room are never found empty.”

* * *

Lang was 21 years old when he learned what the word _loyalty_ truly meant.

He had been made High Royal Guard, next in line to the High General that led the armies of the royal family. His strengths were considered a threat, his skills that of bestowed by the heavens, to protect the royal palace. They considered him a dog, however, but how was he a dog, when he did not have an owner? As far as he knew, he was still as free to leave the palace grounds if he wished, he was still as free to do what he wanted outside of work, as free as to linger in the crowds to talk with the villagers’ ladies and gentlemen, to blacksmiths and maids. To drink until his heart’s content, to bed a willing individual.

What did that mean, when a rebel who wanted to touch the prince, his face a disfigured touch of bruises and scrapes, told him he can never be as free as the birds above the sky?

He was at the Royal Palace’s throne room, about to give his daily report, when he heard the shouts of the king, the cries of the queen, and the woeful screeches of the young prince echoing throughout the palace grounds. It was one of those nights, when the whole royal family seemed so keen to make their personal grudges of hostilities towards each other known to every person in the kingdom.

The soothsayer was there in the room, head bowed in anguished mien. Her hands were clasped together in a tight grip as if she were stating a prayer. It did not make sense to Lang, how families can tear each other apart. He had only known of sacrifice, and the love that had borne out of it, when he gave up his youth to be a breadwinner to his younger brothers and sisters. He could even remember the care his parents gave them, until the sickness took them away from him.

“Your path is grim, little wolf.” The soothsayer’s voice flowed out; her tone icy under the warm light of the throne room. Lang had learned to tune her out most of the time, for he did not believe in prophecies, how could he, when all they said were of doomed lives of the ones looking to know of their destinies.

“My path has always been grim, Ma’am.”

The soothsayer shook her head. And while Lang stood tall and waited, the soothsayer came nearer and placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

“Do you know what love is, Lang?”

“No. Soldiers do not dwell on concepts like love. It makes us weak.”

“Indeed. And that is why your path is grim.” Lang did not understand the words, it felt like living fables, riddles that rendered him speechless and blind. He was not smart, and it did not bother him before. But now, it did. “And you are already there.”

“In what way, does that make my path grim?”

The soothsayer only shook her head once more, as if the sadness in her mind could no longer hold the sadness in her heart. What did she always see when she looked at people? Was it always that of pain? Was it always that of anguish? It seemed cruel to be a seer, and at times, he felt bad for her.

“Do not feel bad for me, little wolf. I do not always see pain. I see…something stronger than pain, but it is not enough, not even for you.” The twinkling of her eyes was mysterious and dreadful that Lang could not do anything but bask in her presence of bleakness. 

_“And on a night of a blood moon, you will finally howl.”_

The doors to the room had opened, revealing the graceful frame of Prince Shen, angry and somehow, tormented.

“Lang, follow me.” He stated, not bothering to even steal a glance at the soothsayer. They walked side by side, and the heaviness in the Prince’s steps was frightful and loud, even for the High Guard. They stepped out to the clearing of the royal gardens, just outside the throne room. He could hear the whispers of the royal family, the air bringing the solidity of their words, making them scream on the inside. It was then that the prince bowed his head, the trembling in his shoulders a sign of an erupting volcano.

“I trust you.” was the only thing he said before the voices fleeted in and out of the door.

_“If Shen will continue with his dark pursuits, he will be defeated by a warrior of black and white.”_

Lang could only look at him, his trembling hands, his cowering stance. He knew a Prince should not break, should not cry. It was one of those things the Prince had explained to him once one night when they tried to rebuild the cannon once more, only for it to remain a failure.

“My destiny is to be destroyed, when I only sought to protect my family, and the kingdom I had called my home.”

Unfathomable anger had surged within him. He clenched his fists on the side, torn between wanting to touch, and wanting to break.

“I will not let them hurt you.”

Shen looked up, the many emotions he seemed to hold now leaking in torrents, and Lang could only stare and ponder what it is that the prince truly felt. It stung somewhere in his chest. He could not fathom what it was, and how it came to be. And as the night sky watched their bereaved hearts, the moon the only spectator, Lang engraved a loyal oath into his soul.

“I will never let anyone hurt you.”

_Not even myself._

* * *

Shen was 20 years old when he learned what the word _freedom_ truly meant.

It was not hard to find the village. It only took one round of questioning and deliberate enquiring, before they pointed out the hidden gates of a world different from his. Lang was more than willing to help in his quest, and his soldiers, his pack, his family, as willing as their head. Shen did not know what he told them but he was not one to complain, not when he knew he would never have gotten far without them. Without him.

And now as the village rose in flames, and the blood drips down his hands, he felt the undeniable tug of destiny. That which he fought for himself. That which he carved by his own hands. Never will someone else tell him what he cannot and can do. Never once again, will someone forge his own path for him. He will do it by himself. He alone was the bearer of his life.

And it felt so good.

For free, he was finally.

A trudge of steps, a snarl, a bloody face, Shen was not quick enough to see the man until he was shoved to the ground, his royal robes further adorned with crimson blotches. Despite his training to defend himself, Shen was not strong nor fast enough for someone trained in the art of kung-fu. And so, as he tried to shake him off, the man’s hands started to grip his neck with all his remaining strength. Shen understood by then, that perhaps, his freedom was short-lived, that this was perhaps, the destiny his nanny would often say to him. And while it stung, he did not feel an ounce of regret. The mess he made was a proof of his efforts to sway his destiny, and despite how short-lived the freedom he took, he would wallow in its carcasses, glad to finally feel the liberation he once longed desired in his own soul.

Until a sword was impaled into the man’s chest, a few seconds before the void could swallow him whole. The shriek of pain rang in his ears and the blood from his lips poured down onto his face like a gushing waterfall. He saw the light die in his eyes, and when he was thrown off, Shen was greeted by luminous, maroon eyes he knew so well.

And as the fire of their deeds surrounded the nakedness of this tragedy, Shen could only stare at the eyes boring into his own, Lang’s strong arms beside his head, the closest they have traveled, the closest they have lingered, side by side. Shen could see the blood on his head, dripping down onto his own hair, and the scars that decorated the sharp cheekbones of his striking features. But what he liked the most, was the carve of his eyes and the emotion that filled it to the brim, it was the kindest he had ever seen, and he wanted to pepper it with silhouette caresses from his own drenched hands. He dared to think of them; he dared to let him stare, even when the voices of his advisers echoed in his head, telling him _a prince must not desire._

Shen slowly reached for his face, his hand a ghost in the air as the smog and the flames danced the night away. The shrieks were a distant echo now, and all he could finally hear was his breath and Lang’s own pants mingling under the stars of a lighter sky. His fingertips first touched the long locks of his gray hair that framed his head, the strands disarray as they escaped the bun the soldier sported. Next, his hands ghosted upon his chin, an inch closer, but not touching, not yet, as if there was a film of separation that ripped them from each other, one that forbid them to touch one another.

“I am free,” Shen whispered, voice croaking from the force.

But Lang seemed to follow that separation, and as if breaking from a trance, he looked away.

The ashes of the village came to a halt, and the wind brought them to the darkest pit of the sky. And Shen wondered, as Lang helped him on his feet away from the village, as they descended down to the mountains, if he was truly free.


	2. After Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: attempted sexual assault in this chapter.

Lang was 23 years old when he learned what the word _helpless_ truly meant.

Banished by the very place he tried so hard to protect was a blow to his heart. But he would not have it any other way, not when the prince needed him the most.

He remembered the frightful stares of the king and queen when they emerged from their victorious encounter. But they were greeted with disgust, even amongst the crowd. Lang wanted to snipe, how dare they think of them as cruel and dirty when every single one of them was as dirty and cruel if not more. They ransacked and stole, they raped and killed, but they did it within the shadows, and only pointed fingers at those who were caught by the glorious sun.

He saw the way Shen had caught under fire with the pain and the guilt that shredded the king and queen. They were sure, he was sure, that what they’ve done was justifiable for a man trapped in an unfair destiny. They were wrong, and they banished them whole. He was even given a choice, he only needed to sever the bond he had built with the Prince and give up his entire troop. But there was no more important decision but to follow Prince Shen in his footsteps. He made an oath, a promise, and promises were not supposed to be broken.

And yet, and yet.

There was nothing he could do but be as silent as the winds to a prince who had succumbed to memories he sought to forget. He was no longer addressed as my prince, he forbid it even if Lang knew it hurt him, and was only addressed as sir or Shen, if they were alone.

Lang taught him to fight and Shen was more than willing to undergo. They were on their own now, him and a few handfuls of guards who believed in the prince more than they believed in the king, so they had to make do, make it up as they go. They hid inside a forest not too close to the city, a hidden area where they could be as free to prepare.

To prepare for retribution.

However, that was merely a goal. Not so much as a vision, not yet, not without the weapon, the cannon. They had to make it right, once and for all.

But Lang was still as silent, for Shen no longer talked, and lived throughout the days with nothing more than bruises and battered hands, the smoothness of it shattered in just one day. It pained him to see it that way, the way Shen abused his body when Lang still thought of it as something sacred and delicate to tarnish. He was still a prince in his eyes, the kind, unafraid prince who merely sought to disapprove of his destiny. So Lang became what Shen needed him to be – an adviser, a teacher, a soldier, a guard – and nothing more. And those smiles that he was blessed with sometimes, were now fading into wisps.

The prince was even a sight to behold to now if Lang could dare to be honest. From the now longer, silky white hair of his framing the delicate cheeks of his face, to his long eyelashes that danced in calm blinks, the lips as pink as the plush carnations of the royal gardens, and the elegant stances of his movements. He bloomed like a beautiful carnation, like a peacock, and he bloomed beautifully, but with it, was the darkness he could not seem to shake, and it was getting harder for Lang not to stare.

But Lang made an oath. And so he did that oath. He drowned in it.

For there was nothing he could do.

* * *

Shen was 25 years old when he learned what the word _death_ truly meant 

There was no sign, no omen. He believed in those things, ever since his soothsayer told him his very first prophecy, not the one with his ultimate defeat. No. This particular prophecy gave him comfort and hope. It would sometimes resurface into his mind, and he would have a rush of bravery to call him out, but that bravery would die as quickly as it formed. He would not dare to say it, not anymore. Not when it didn’t matter after all these years.

Still, he believed in omens, in predictions, for one prophecy became true, and the other one he vanquished like a god. But the heavens were cruel to him. So, when the news of his parents’ passing came, he only stopped, just for a moment, and then continued onto his work as if the news did not bear anything at all.

Lang had stood far behind, but it was after an hour that he noticed he left. He remained gone for several hours until he came back as he was about to dismiss his troops to bid the day farewell.

“I have acquired information about the royal family’s death, sir, if you would want to know.” It had taken him minutes to process the voice, the information in it. But he only sat on his bed inside his quarters and untangled the bandages wrapped around his feet.

“I did not ask for you to go and acquire information, Lang. Do not get haughty just because you are my right-hand man.” There was no response. No voices. Only silence. Shen turned around, just in time to see the furrowed brows of his companion before it dissipated into an expressionless mien he now always wore.

“They died in an attack, I assume.”

“No, sir, they did not.” Shen wanted him to stop. He wanted the world to stop. He needed to feel numb. He needed not to be human so he could not feel the intricacy of his soul echoing back into the creases of his mind. He did not want to feel, but all Shen could do was feel for he was still human, so unbearably human.

“Then what?” There was a pause.

“They died of a broken heart.”

When Shen slept that night, he found that he could not. Good riddance, he would say, but he never did. Instead, he stared at the moonlight peeking outside his window, counted the stars visible on the dark blanket of a sky, and realized how empty his mind was. And so he thought, this was what death felt like. There was only the void and the void alone.

* * *

Lang was 26 years old when he learned what the word _pain_ truly meant.

For as long as he could remember, he had never known what it felt like to be not in pain, the olden scars were proof of that. Even when his last mentor made sure that he would grow numb to the threats that came with being a guard. He had not realized that his training did not merely encompass his duties as a soldier but extended on how to live in such a cruel world.

He had grown hard. He had slaughtered when he can, hurt when he should not. As long as the flames of his fury perpetuated his insides, he would not cease. Later, he would realize, it was not fury, it was pain

And even as Lang bed whomever he wanted, punched whoever he needed, nobody could tell him what it was nestling inside his chest, like an itch he could not scratch. Impatience, he reckoned. For the days were getting shorter, and the future, so bleak. But the oath he made was the clearest thought in his head among the rest, and it served as an anchor.

And if he could be honest; Shen was his anchor.

Even when the man, whose face was still lovely despite the lingering lines brought upon by passing years, was no longer the same man he had grown to know.

And Lang was sure, Shen no longer recognized him as well.

It was the consequences of their actions that brought those lines, but those actions were necessary, he was sure, now more than ever. He sought to help as best as he can, and there were even nights he had stayed up for the banished prince, like they always did back in the palace. But they talked no more, glanced no more. There was only them and the future they planned.

Though that was a lie. Lang would slip into the Shen’s quarters and watch him sleep.

And the numbness he thought he mastered would crumble each night with every passing, gentle breath.

Then, he would feel the grappling surge of pain right here, the one above his beating heart. Lang decided that this was what pain truly felt like, and he drowned in it every time he looked at him.

* * *

Shen was 27 years old when he learned what the word _anger_ truly meant.

He was getting tired of everything else, but he needed to push his patience if he wanted to succeed. Sources were scarce, and there was only a handful of them to make the work go faster. If he could be honest, Shen did not miss the palace, the suffocation it gave him, and the heaviness it bore him. There were times he would miss the heat of his mother’s embrace and his father’s steadfast comfort, but they betrayed him, their only son, and that wounded him far greater than when he learned what his destiny had entailed him to become.

And so, he sought pleasure to satisfy his impatience. His growing profound need. Shen did not understand what he needed, what he sought, but he was free enough to look for it. And he had found it in a pub when they explored further west for supplies.

He did not look after his appearance, not after that kind of tragedy, but the younger soldiers who were brave enough had commented on his growing form before Lang could shut them up, much to his dismay. His frustrations seemed to grow towards his most trusted and loyal guard in each passing day, and he did not know why. Lang was not a barrier, nor was he detrimental. He had only done what needed to be done for their goal. He was even silent most of the time and allowed him to think when others did not.

He was considerate and it made Shen bitter to his bones.

But he knew of his stares, and that was when Shen learned he could use the physical attributes the heavens had given him to get what he wanted; to demand what he needed.

It came in the form of a man with a musky scent of the earth, with coal underneath his fingernails, with hands as rough as the sand, and a body that was strong and warm. But his eyes were wrong. They were not kind, but Shen did not know what he wanted, and so he no longer cared.

Yet, this night was wet and unkind to his skin. He did not know why the bitterness was so loud tonight of all nights, when he could finally release the aching tension building up in his bones. The man’s lips were on his own as he straddled his lap, two beating hearts pressing against the flushness of skin. He could feel calloused hands wandering the sensitive skin of his thighs. He had even gripped them, harder, the lust traveling down and electrifying touches, and a low growl had escaped him when Shen let him lick the lines of his neck, the drool dripping down onto his clothed chest.

But Shen lost the appetite to do anything, anymore.

He raised his hands, blocking the man from advancing even further. He apologized, whispered, as soft as he can, and untangled himself from him.

The man did not stop, for he seemed not to know what the word no truly meant.

He grabbed Shen’s arm, gripping his wrist tightly that he could only yelp in surprise. The man tried to push him back to the bed, eyes now of a demon’s, and Shen tried to resist, even biting his ear when he came too close, too dangerous. It earned him a slap across his face, a bruise so velvet it mirrored the wounds he once housed on his wrists. But he was overpowered, and the man only pushed him harder into the bed so he could make a statement, that tonight, he was his.

Lost in his desires, a growl of hostility that sent shivers down his spine, there was nothing but the desperation, and it clung graciously onto Shen’s clammy skin when his robes were forcefully ripped to shreds.

When fingers reached even further, trying to touch more of him, to feel more of him, the man seemed so lost in his head, Shen let him bite the sensitive part of his neck,

Then palmed the jugular vein on his neck with such grizzly force it sent him back choking on pristine air.

But Shen was not given the satisfaction to continue onto his pursuit as a man dressed in shadows entered the windows and wrapped his own arm around his neck. He struggled, trying to desperately breathe, and Shen could only watch when the shadow paused, time seemingly halting in its ticks. And then, there was a crack.

There was only the moon, its shadow, and its crown.

Shen stared at the eyes, always at the eyes, for he yearned to see if his heart was true to its beating. The shadow only looked at him, fists shaking by his side, and bowed his head as if embarrassed, and perhaps even disgusted. There was dread creeping onto his skin, anger rising in his veins, and Shen wanted to scream.

He pushed himself out of the bed to corner Lang onto the wall. He dared to touch the fabric of his uniform, and Lang let him. Shen could only clench his hands against the sides of the soldier’s face. If he were not disturbed by those eyes, perhaps, he would have noticed his own hands were shaking. If only he were more careful, more open, perhaps then he would have smelled the fear from his own skin, reckless and unjustifiable.

“Did you not like what you saw, dear, royal guard?” A mock escaped his lips, but Shen could not stop. Lang’s silence was aggravating. He pulled the mask down from his face, harsh, unkind, but Lang stayed as silent, his face bearing no expression, and it wounded him. He dared to finally touch his skin, cupping his face beneath his hands in a way that seemed like he was begging. And he did not know why he was, and why it hurt, right here, on his chest.

“Touch me, Lang.”

There was a dark glint in the other’s eyes, and Shen’s heart dropped. “My hands are not fit to touch a prince.”

“And you think he was??!”

“No.” Lang dislodged himself from his grasp and walked away, leaving Shen to burrow into his thoughts, into his beating, troubled heart. He clenched his hands, hurting his palms, and yelled into the gleaming moon.

“But you held me in your arms on the night we first met!” Lang had stayed by the window, debating perhaps, and turned to look.

“for I have not known you a prince.”

* * *

Lang was 35 years old when he learned what the word _promise_ truly meant

The cries of people did not echo as much as he thought they would when they ransacked the village. They did not kill, hurt was more accurate, but those who stood in the way had met their fate in the void. Lang was not one to salvage, not anymore. After all those years, there was only the numbness, and the desire to go home.

The metals needed for the cannon’s near completion was merely a day away. Just a few more, they could take back what was stolen from them, from Shen, him.

The banished prince even glowed under the sun, from where he belonged. Even when his face was no longer as youthful, he was still as graceful, as beautiful, still with the silken robes of white that matched his hair peppered with pure white feathers dancing on those strands, and the crimson symbols that matched his eyes, the very heirloom of his family history.

And Lang watched him in content as they took back the city.

But their goal, their desire, was not to be reached without a fight. Kung-fu warriors from the valleys have pledged to take them down. And then there was only fear when Lang personally met a warrior of black and white. He was not one to listen to prophecies, but Shen did for some desperate reason. Though when he learned that his target was the prince, his prince, he became a madman.

Shen did too.

There was chaos in Gongmen City. Their victories were short-lived, and Lang lost more than he gained. They had fought even, both him and Shen, the scowls in their faces deadly and mocking. But the guard forgave, and he forgot, nonetheless. Even as their plans were turning desperate despite the warriors from the valley, Lang could only forgive. He could only give in. He had lived his life for this man, and he would continue to do so.

**Until he did not.**

The ship they were on traveled through the city, their conquest at the tip of their fingers, ready to embark on its own eternal glory. Lang was sure of their victory, of their objectives, until the warriors attacked them, clear as the day that even the warrior of black and white had survived. It was a sight he would want to forget as he saw each of his pack, his troops and his siblings all succumbed to the fate they knew they would one day seal. That was today.

It was apparent to Lang, the noises of firecrackers in the air igniting a sense of dread in him, they could not win. They would not win.

His life seemed to flash before his eyes, and as he saw his troops wounded in their misery, the chilly midnight air filling his bones, he looked at Shen, graceful even as he kicked and struck and palmed his enemies, blood dripping down his nose. There must have been a connection, a push of desperation clinging that made the prince looked at him, and in their eyes, they saw nothing but the fear. Nobody could see it but him.

“Fire! Fire at them!” he yelled. His voice cold, and unwilling, and suddenly a ghost.

“But sir, it’s your own!” Lang pleaded.

But Shen did not listen. “I said fire at them! FIRE!”

The pause was tentative, and everything stopped, the lights on the sky, the creaking of wooden boards, the shouts and screams of rage and triumph. He could smell the blood in the air, the gunpowder, the pain. There was nothing but the coldness and cruelty in the red sheen of his eyes. It occurred to Lang that he had a part in Shen’s ultimate destruction, despite wanting to keep him safe, for if he did not recognize his troops, his followers, his friends, he was already lost.

And the prince he knew, he was long gone.

Lang had to make one last choice, for his troops.

For Shen.

He promised to keep him safe.

This was it.

“No.” he threw the torch down the ship’s wooden floors, ready to explain, to yell, to scream. But Shen did not give him a chance.

And Lang knew by then, that he never really turned numb. That was perhaps his mentor’s mistake, and then his own. He cared. He cared so deeply that he sacrificed everything.

The blood trickled down his torso. It did not hurt as much as he thought it would. What hurt the most was how Shen did it so callously. And as he watched him wreak havoc from the floorboards, a bleeding pit of crimson, all he could do was watch and whisper little prayers -- pray to the heavens that it was not too late to turn him around. Not too late to keep him safe. Even if he knew, the skies above did not give chances to people who have already fallen; did not heed the calls of the wicked. The fire continued to burn everywhere.

Until iridescent firecrackers bombed the skies, and in those lights, Lang could see the one whom he loved the most. Then, it was gone.

* * *

Shen was 33 years old when he learned what the word _life_ truly meant

He was far gone. He no longer thought of anything but absolute retribution. He kicked his father’s throne, soiled his home, killed his troops -- all for destiny. Perhaps, all for pride.

But as the waves washed him ashore into one of the secluded areas of the city, he wondered if what he did was enough. He supposed Po was right, in some way. That it only mattered who he chose to be in the present. Shen chose this path, and despite what he had to become because of this path, if that path was wrong after all, it did not matter. He was here in the present. All that mattered was this moment.

He could not feel anything now, his arms, or legs, or fingers. A state of hollowness, he thought. He watched the sky. The moon was red.

He recounted his regrets, now that life was pouring out of him, little by little. He supposed he regretted not saying goodbye to his mother, kissing his father, embracing his nanny – one last time. He supposed he regretted the choice he made once from all those years ago, when he seduced that man even if he knew he was dangerous, to spite someone else. He supposed he regretted not knowing his troops more. His thoughts came to Lang -- his face, his warmth, his kind eyes. And Shen wanted to choke in tears. He regretted him the most.

Shallow footsteps echoed, crunching the sand beneath, and Shen waited for another bout of pain, perhaps a sword unto his abdomen, as he stared at the moon. If this person were a villager, he would be glad for their anger was not misplaced, and that death was the only fitting punishment for his crimes.

But there was none of that, only a caress of a palm of his head, fingers threading through his damp hair. He looked away from the moon and saw him, his eyes glinting under the moonlight as the sun started to peek from the horizon.

“I am not lost. I do not want to be found.” Shen whispered. He coughed, blood pouring from the corners of his now pale lips. If Lang were there to kill him, it would be the greatest comfort he could have. “But you found me.”

But Lang’s eyes were still kind, still soft, like the way he always looked at him when he dared to. He had never understood what the man had seen in him, and how he could dedicate his life for him, to look at him like he was the sun, like he was worthy and still as beautiful. He wanted to ask, right now, what he meant to him, even if he never deserved it.

“I found you.” Lang had said, voice graveled, cracking as if he was lost, as if he was lifeless. “and I will always do.” Shen wanted to scream.

Lang carried his head and settled him on his shoulder, wrapping him with his arms. The warmth quickly dissipated, however. All he could feel was the coldness. And it stung. After all those years of trying to touch, here he was, finally doing so, but he could not feel anything, not anymore.

Though it wasn’t so bad, he thought, to die in his arms.

“You…finally held me in your arms.” Lang seemed to hold him closer, and then he could slightly feel the wetness on his forehead, leaving a trail of on his cheeks, on his neck. It was comforting to know someone would weep for him. “I thought you were not fit to touch a prince?”

He rocked him, back and forth, back and forth. Shen knew it was Lang’s own comfort. “You are not a prince. You are my... I’m sorry…I’m sorry. I was supposed to keep you safe and I--”

“Shhh. It’s okay.” He tried to raise his hand with all his remaining strength as he murmured. It was a last push of strength, of determination, and he cupped his cheeks and thumbed his tears. “When I was six years old, my nanny predicted that the half of my soul will find me in this lifetime.” He choked, and tears finally released its sheath and poured down his cheeks like a desperate waterfall. It did not stop. And as Shen watched the maroon swirls of his eyes, he began to shiver. There was a knife on his torso, and he grasped Lang’s hand on that handle. But there was no time left to say the things he wanted to say. The heavens were cruel after all for those who had grown too prideful in their grasps. So he beckoned for forgiveness to the skies. He stared at Lang’s scarred face, and the last thought that escaped him was, the only thing that mattered right now, was dying in the tight embrace of his arms.

He knew by then, this was death, staring at him with soft eyes.

* * *

Lang was 36 years old when he learned what the word _love_ truly meant

Shen’s body was a ghost in his arms. And when his eyes fluttered shut, all Lang could do was howl. And he howled into the bright red moon his pain, his misery, his agony.

And even as he lied down next to him, his wounds now numb, blood gushing out of them, he watched his face, memorized the lines, the cheeks, the lashes. He took his hand, brought it upon his pale lips, and placed the softest kiss he could manage, right on his calloused palms.

“I love you." He murmured so the winds may carry it far. "And I will find you in our next life.”

And the wolf breathed his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
